


Under Certain Circumstances…

by Joodiff



Series: Joodiff's adult WtD fic from FFN [7]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the time and the circumstances are right, unexpected things can and do happen - but afterwards, in the cold light of day, can Boyd and Grace find the common ground they need to make a permanent relationship work? (Formerly posted on FFN.)<br/><br/><i>Adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Certain Circumstances…

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**Under Certain Circumstances…**

By Joodiff

* * *

 

Ironically, when it finally happens, it happens simply because of one sheer fluke of circumstance.

As they approach her front door after a long, tiring day followed by an all-too brief late supper, their attention is more on their on-going conversation than anything else, and when Grace accidentally stumbles slightly on the uneven path, Boyd automatically grabs her arm to steady her. It couldn’t be more circumstantial. Nor more stupidly prosaic. Off-balance, she staggers, faintly aware of his grip tightening, but as they unexpectedly collide she becomes less aware of his grip and far more aware of just how big and solid he is as she reels against him. Somehow she seems to be looking up at exactly the same moment as he seems to be looking down, and she finds herself staring straight into compelling dark eyes that fix her with a familiar yet strangely hypnotic gaze.

In all the years they’ve known each other, Grace doesn’t remember another occasion when they’ve been in quite such close physical proximity. For a moment they both seem to be frozen, and, disturbingly, the predominant thought in her head appears to be just how attractive he is. It’s not a new thought by any means, but it’s not one she’s used to entertaining whilst in such close physical contact with him. Close enough to feel the heat of his body radiating through his shirt, Grace realises as her heartbeat abruptly increases. Her reaction to their unaccustomed proximity could certainly be considered inappropriate, given that he’s a long-standing colleague first and foremost, one who has almost only coincidentally become a personal friend, but his is most definitely even more so. His is also incredibly succinct. His gaze locked to hers, Boyd simply mutters, “Fuck…”

Grace only has the briefest moment to wonder at the startling imprecation, certainly doesn’t have time to raise her eyebrows or voice a question, but she quickly understands. It’s a curse of acknowledgement and surrender, that single, loaded word, and she knows it the instant he lowers his head to brush his lips softly against hers. The kiss is so light, so astonishingly gentle that she’s genuinely shaken by the instant and powerful response of her entire body to it. The shock that travels up and down her spine is sharp and primal, something she hasn’t felt for a very, very long time. She’s barely aware of the soft gasp that escapes her as Boyd draws back a little, but it quite evidently has a strong effect on him because instead of backing away as she half-expects, he kisses her again – just as gently, but with considerably more resolve.

For Grace, it’s a sharply delineated moment. The moment where she has a distinct choice – pull away in flustered embarrassment, or forget about professional propriety and common-sense and simply kiss him back, whatever the potential consequences might be. She shivers, and the slight evening chill is certainly not the cause. She isn’t consciously aware of making the choice, but her lips seem to be automatically responding to his. A little tentatively at first, maybe, but with rapidly-increasing focus as what’s happening takes hold of her. A little late, and a touch self-consciously, she rests her free hand on his waist, just above the hip. A little clumsy, a little awkward, but a gesture towards… something.

His mouth leaving hers again, Boyd slowly lifts his head, dark eyes studying her with a look Grace can’t quite interpret. He’s still holding her elbow, and he releases his grip just long enough to transfer it to her hand. Not breaking eye-contact, he presses her palm firmly against his chest. His voice slightly husky, all he says is, “Feel.”

She feels the smooth fabric of his shirt, and the heat emanating through it, but that’s not important. What’s important is the strong heartbeat she can clearly feel beneath her hand – steady in its rhythm but much, much faster than she expects. As fast, she realises with surprise, as her own suddenly seems to be. Vaguely wondering why she’s even slightly bewildered by the way their hearts are racing, Grace rapidly searches his face for clues, but finds very little in his expression that she can read. The eyes, though… the eyes are fierce and sharp, and they watch her intently. Something’s happening between them, something that’s as visceral as it is unanticipated.

This time it’s Grace who kisses him, and though she’s still a little hesitant, she’s single-minded about it. If it’s nothing, just a foolish, mad moment, well, so be it, but if there’s even the faintest chance… and then rational thought goes away as he not only responds eagerly, but with an intensity that almost literally steals her breath away. Too many sensations all at once. Harsh evening stubble contrasted by the wiry softness of his goatee beard; the warmth of his body, and the cool of the evening. Her lips, his lips, the first daring flicker of tongues that becomes a much deeper exploration. Even the smell of him – warm, spicy and intoxicatingly male – threatens to overwhelm her in those first few seconds. How long the wild kaleidoscope of things lasts, Grace isn’t sure, but when they finally draw apart again she knows – she just _knows_ – that in the space of just a few minutes everything’s changed between them and that after almost a decade of fighting and friendship they’re suddenly sailing in completely uncharted waters.

Her instinct is to speak, to immediately throw words at the dangerous situation, but _her_ way is not _his_ way, and perhaps sometimes his way is best. Grace tightens her grip on his hand as she turns towards her front door, searching hastily for her keys with the other hand. Everything suddenly seems very urgent, as if the slightest hesitation now will break whatever erotic spell it is that’s temporarily woven itself around them both. The keys are in her hand, and now she’s fumbling them into the lock, and then Boyd is right behind her, close enough that she can once again feel the startling warmth of him. The door surrenders – thank God – and then she’s all-but dragging him into the narrow hallway. It’s Boyd who toes the door firmly shut as she reaches for the light switches, and then everything’s suddenly happening very quickly again, and without a single word spoken between them.

Who seizes hold of who first is completely irrelevant. Neither of them seem to be leading the age-old dance – _it_ seems to be leading _them_. It’s just heat and instinct and attraction, the hammering of hearts, and a bruising, exciting clash of hands, mouths, and tongues. Grace isn’t quite sure how she’s managed it, but she’s got the fingers of one hand buried deep in his hair – thick and soft and compelling – whilst the other hand seems to be busy trying to find its way under his jacket and round to his back. Terrifying and exciting, and not nearly as dangerous as where Boyd’s hands are – one already on her breast, palm rubbing against her nipple, the other skimming her hip and moving rapidly. He pulls her tight against him, and it’s the burgeoning hint of unmistakably male hardness against her stomach that instantly shocks Grace back to some kind of sense.

Perhaps a little too sharply, she draws back a fraction, provoking a displeased rumble of protest from Boyd who immediately locks his grip to prevent any chance of escape. Grace doesn’t attempt to pull any further away. She already knows it would be futile – she’s well aware of just how strong he is, how physically powerful regardless of the mounting number of years. She does what she always does – she speaks. “Maybe we should – “

Boyd does what _he_ always does, too. He interrupts. “Don’t say ‘talk’, for God’s sake, Grace.”

She can’t prevent the wry note in her voice as she asks, “No talking…?”

“No talking,” he confirms. “What the hell is there to talk about after nearly ten bloody years?”

He has a point. In some ways, at least. Still, Grace is not quite ready to give up the attempt. “I just think – “

“Don’t think,” Boyd says, and before she can argue he kisses her again, thieving the words from her before she can utter them. Just enough deliberate roughness and impatience to make her shiver helplessly, she realises. Oh yes, he’s good. Then, didn’t she always know he would be?

She’s back in the maelstrom almost before she knows it, back in the place that’s just him and her, the place where there’s want and need, and nothing else matters. She kisses his neck, drunk on the taste of him, the smell of him. She twists her fingers even harder into his hair, tries to bite his throat just because it’s there and she can, and when he growls in response she can feel it almost as much as she can hear it. She’s already lost in him, already a long, long way past the point of no return. Grace is sure she knows how and where this is going to end, and she isn’t sorry. If the last year has taught her anything, it’s the importance of remembering that life is for living.

It’s her voice, not his, that whispers fiercely, “Upstairs…”

It’s stupid, of course. Stupid and irresponsible, and very definitely unprofessional, but she’s stopped caring, and she’s fairly sure he didn’t care much to start with. Show him a rule, and on principle Boyd will break it, bend it or circumnavigate it entirely. As she gives a remarkably good impression of an extremely assertive woman towing a helpless prey up the stairs in her wake, Grace knows he’s definitely not thinking about whether or not they should be doing this thing they are quite evidently doing. They stumble onto the gloomy landing and Boyd immediately cracks his shin smartly on the small occasional table that – in hindsight – probably is something of a trap for the unwary, and suddenly there’s a good deal of cursing and hastily suppressed giggling challenging the crackling sexual tension for supremacy. To her joy and surprise, however, it doesn’t seem to kill the mood so much as enhance it by adding a layer of amused affectionate familiarity to the situation.

She laughs, he grumbles; he swears, she chides. It’s how they are together, how they’ve been together for a long, long time. The laughing and the cursing somehow become mischievous kissing and exploration, and she’s amazed by just how easy it all is. Maybe Boyd reads it in her expression, because in an indulgent tone he asks, “What?”

Her arms are firmly around his neck and she looks up at him solemnly, struck by the gentle fondness in his dark eyes. She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter…” _…but I think I just realised that I’m hopelessly in love with you._

He nods past her, towards the far door. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Grace agrees. So stupidly, unexpectedly easy. Again, she pulls him along with her, and the only small twinge of apprehension she feels is the slight, foolish fear of allowing him through the door into what has so long been a very private personal space. She’s ridiculously glad that she likes to keep her bedroom tidy and tranquil – there’s nothing romantic about the idea of a prospective new lover coming face-to-face with piles of dirty washing, last night’s empty bottle of wine, or any of the other inevitable flotsam and jetsam of everyday life. Though, considering how keen Boyd seems to be to follow her, she wonders if he would even notice such mundane things.

The bedside lamp is a good idea – the light it brings to the room is warm, muted, and gentle enough to be flattering – but when Grace turns face to face him, she’s momentarily disconcerted by how large and ungainly he looks standing in the small space between the bed and the door. It’s not just his height, either, it’s the angles of him – he’s suddenly all shoulders and elbows – and the unconscious, unaffected masculinity of him. He doesn’t coordinate at all well with the floral patterns and the feminine lines of the room. The thought makes her smirk, and Boyd raises his eyebrows at her. He’s simply a bit too… _male_ … to be a harmonious part of the decor. The heavy, puzzled scowl that’s beginning to set in tells her that he’s completely oblivious to the direction of her chain of thought. Without thinking, Grace reaches up to caress his face, her fingertips tracing the strong brow ridge, the deep furrows of the growing frown. Boyd tilts his head to one side inquiringly, and she moves her fingers slowly to his cheek; she’s pleased when he leans in to kiss her… and genuinely astounded by just how fast the acute desire starts to mount again.

The reality of the situation catches Grace once more, but very differently this time. Reality is the sudden breathless fumble to start prying away the layers of clothing that separate them. Reality is the way his jacket slithers to the floor, something heavy – maybe his phone, maybe his wallet or his warrant card – audibly hitting the leg of her dressing table on the way down. Reality is her fingers scrabbling with his shirt buttons as she again moves her mouth to his neck. It’s in the way he’s impatiently trying to work his way through to her bare skin, and the blissful shock that flashes through her when he manages it. Grace pushes, Boyd pulls, and suddenly they’re crashing down onto the bed; somehow she lands on top, and almost immediately there’s an irreverent but heart-warming amount of tickling and chuckling and yelping going on as they grapple. It’s… fun. The insight is a surprise. Grace is sure that in all the private fantasies that she has no intention of ever disclosing to anyone, this moment was an earnest, elegant seduction. Artistic rather than entertaining.

She grabs a decent handful of his shirt and pulls hard, and the last few buttons give under the strain, one of them at least disappearing at high speed into the shadows, probably forever. She grins in unashamed delight at her own wickedness, and Boyd glares up at her and complains, “Thanks, Grace… You know how much this shirt cost?”

“Far too much,” she says promptly, still impatiently tugging at the fabric.

“God’s _sake_ …” he protests. “Stop it… just wait a bloody minute…”

He’s wrestling irritably with his cufflinks, so Grace takes the unexpected opportunity to investigate the fascinating expanse of exposed male flesh that’s now so temptingly on display. Warm, soft, and smooth as silk, she discovers. Interesting places where the lines of muscle and bone show clearly; plains and valleys and pathways, a whole new and exciting landscape to explore. He’s mesmerising in his wonderful imperfection, in the places where he is old and scarred and savage. Grace falls in love with the simple, gentle curve of his stomach, kisses him there over and over until he’s growling in pleasure and protest, and when she refuses to stop Boyd brings his superior strength to bear and quite suddenly she’s looking upwards and he’s pinning her effortlessly.

He gives her the grin that never fails to lead her firmly in the direction of temptation. Artless, and simultaneously brimming with promise and mischief, it’s the grin that contradicts everything about his fearsome reputation, the one that betrays the roguishness that lurks beneath the veneer of professionalism and urbanity. The grin, in fact, that she adores. That she’s always adored. It costs Grace a lot to bite back the words that form automatically, the only words she wants to say to him. Tiny, dangerous words that could ruin everything. They swell inside her, threaten to overwhelm her, and the best she can do is modify them into a throaty, “God, I want you…”

The effect the words have on Boyd is instantaneous and dramatic. She knows how volatile he is, and yet he still catches her by surprise as some barrier inside him seems to buckle and break, allowing something far more feral to come roaring through the crumbling barricades. It’s far more exhilarating than frightening, but Grace is left with no illusions about what sort of wild, reckless creature she’s suddenly dealing with. He’s on the attack, and he isn’t holding back. His hands are everywhere, searching and learning with a rapid, sensual greed that makes her whimper in delight. Whatever gets in his way gets pulled off or pushed aside, and she begins to think she couldn’t stop him even if she wanted to.

She doesn’t want to. His mouth blazes a trail from her throat to her breasts, biting, kissing, and sucking, finding one nipple and then the other, his tongue stirring the all the deep nerves that send tiny shockwaves right through her. Grace does what she can in retaliation – which amounts to very little. Her fingers wind into his hair again, and even that contact is quickly lost as he hunts hungrily down her body, heading relentlessly towards the desperate, aching place between her thighs. For a moment Grace is ridiculously embarrassed when she realises that the voice which is moaning and muttering and pleading is her own, but then Boyd’s mouth is on her stomach and his fingers are moving even lower, and every hint of rational thought goes away completely for a few blissful seconds.

Exquisite, the sensation of those strong, blunt fingers exploring with expert precision, and she arches against him, her whole body suddenly taut. Reality and fantasy briefly collide, and she decides that the reality is better by far. No fantasy can replicate the myriad of sensations and emotions pouring through her. Part of her mind is still desperately trying to analyse what’s happening, but it’s failing – Boyd is too accomplished at what he’s doing, and too eager to do it for Grace to be able to concentrate properly on anything else. She gasps and moans, and seizes the bedcovers beneath her in a tight, sweaty grip as his fingers are replaced by his mouth, and for a few seconds she honestly doesn’t think she can bear the intensity of the stimulation. Either it’s been far, far too long or he’s far, far too good – or some sublime combination of both – but whatever the reason, she’s beginning to think it won’t be long before she’s shaking and arching and screaming his name.

Boyd is moving again, however, and Grace moans briefly in protest, but then she realises exactly what he’s doing and the urge to complain vociferously vanishes. It’s actually strangely amusing, his quick, abrupt, but very methodical unbuckling and unzipping, and she’s more than a little disappointed that she’s not directly involved in the process. Doubly disappointed by the all-too brief glance she gets of exactly what lies beneath those impeccably tailored suit trousers and the distinctly functional grey trunks that immediately follow them to the floor. Not a man for brightly-coloured patterned boxers then, Grace thinks with a hidden smirk, but that entertaining thought is lost as he settles heavily between her thighs again and she feels the hot, urgent hardness of him pressing against her.

Boyd’s smirk is not hidden, nor does it disappear as he starts to rock his hips slowly, letting her feel the length and girth of him. Grace knows a distinctly smug man when she sees one – though, to be fair, from what she can deduce, he has a reasonable amount to feel smug about. She shivers – can’t stop herself – and his smirk increases. She wants to say something witty and profound, something they can laugh about afterwards, but what she manages is a distinctly banal and unoriginal, “Oh God…”

The smirk has faded, and the dark eyes are burning. The sheer huskiness of his voice makes her shiver again as he murmurs, “Now?”

She wonders why he feels the need to ask, but she nods emphatically without saying a word. Boyd edges his hips a little, seeking just the right angle, and Grace swallows convulsively, the sudden tension jolting up and down her spine. That elemental hardness is pushing impatiently against her, demanding entry to her body, and a twinge of apprehension tightens in her stomach; she knows that if he’s rough, if he’s careless, he could easily hurt her. Boyd lifts his head a fraction, and she realises she’s already digging her fingernails deep into his shoulders. His voice is still quiet as he says, “Trust me…”

Deliberately, Grace forces herself to relax. He’s not a bumbling, over-eager teenage boy with just one thought in his head, he’s a mature, experienced man with rather more conquests to his name than she wants to think about, and he quite evidently knows exactly what he’s doing. He tells her to trust him, so she does, and as the fear goes away it’s replaced by something altogether more satisfactory – pleasure. Boyd takes his time, easing into her and pulling back, easing in a little deeper and pulling back, and it feels… sublime. It goes against the grain to flatter him, but she isn’t against telling him the plain and simple truth, and she does, in a throaty murmur of, “Feels so good…”

He grins, kisses her throat and whispers, “I’ve hardly started yet…”

Grace grins back. It’s all right. Everything’s all right. She says, “Some night-cap, Boyd…”

“Beats the hell out of that cheap Scotch you insist on buying…”

It’s so damned easy, and Grace doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All the years, all the flirtation, all the games, and in the end it’s so damned _easy_ …

Boyd braces, makes the final push, and suddenly they’re locked together as deeply and powerfully as they ever could be. Grace tightens herself around him experimentally, wanting to feel every inch of him, and the answering expression on his face makes her want to laugh aloud. It seems she’s not the only one who’s feeling the intensity of it. Boyd starts to move, slow and controlled at first, letting her get used to his presence, but it doesn’t take him long to step up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper and quicker. Grace loops a leg over his hip, half to control the tempo, half to pull him even deeper, and she closes her eyes, concentrating hard. It’s good – it’s very good – but she doesn’t think it’ll be quite enough. It doesn’t matter. It is what it is, and it’s good enough.

She feels him moving, and opens her eyes to peer at him, and the dark eyebrows quirk at her in response. He settles back on his haunches, still buried deep inside her, his hands on her hips, and she looks up at him in mild amusement. “Are we having a few self-control issues?”

“Just taking a moment to admire the scenery,” he tells her, his voice smooth. “Don’t you worry about me, Grace. I may be a bit out of practice, but I haven’t forgotten completely…”

“ _You’re_ out of practice,” Grace says wryly, “how do you think _I_ feel?”

Boyd grins, deeply wicked. “You feel bloody marvellous to me.”

“Behave yourself.”

“She says, lying flat on her back with her legs apart.”

“You silver-tongued old devil, you.”

The grin increases, briefly exposing a lot of teeth. “Brace yourself, woman; this big boy’s got his eye on the prize.”

Grace laughs. There’s something comfortingly incongruous about the whole situation. It seems, though, that Boyd isn’t joking because he picks up the pace again, even harder and faster than before, and she very quickly finds herself caught back up in the sensual frenzy, caught in want and need; caught, in fact, in him; in him and her, and everything she thinks and feels. She bites her lower lip, focusing on the elusive sensation that’s beginning to build deep inside her. Boyd is ahead of her by a long way, she can see it in the taut tendons of his neck, in the set of his jaw, in the sheen of sweat on his chest and shoulders, but he is – inevitably – as stubborn in this as he is in everything else, and somehow he’s holding back.

He changes rhythm, whether by accident or design, Grace isn’t sure, but suddenly there’s a lot more friction inside and out; he seems to be hitting all the rights spots, and she thinks that if he can just keep…

Boyd shouts and throws his head back, but he’s still moving, and in those last few moments she manages to snatch her own release, the final push perhaps the erotic feedback from seeing and feeling his shuddering, explosive climax. Not that Grace remotely cares _why_. She’s just digging her fingers into his back and shoulders, and meeting his last few thrusts with hard, desperate jerks of her own hips. It’s a fast, desperate sort of end to it, but that doesn’t matter. Her heart is thundering in her chest, her breath is coming in short, quick gasps, and the tremors are still rippling through her. She can’t quite remember how long it’s been since she’s felt anything quite so intense, and bizarrely her strongest instinct is to laugh aloud in pure unmitigated joy. She restrains herself, doesn’t think Boyd will appreciate it, but it’s possible he might not even notice, given the torpor that seems to have overtaken him. His head’s resting on her shoulder, and his eyes are closed. He’s hot, damp, and very heavy, and all Grace wants to do is hold him, preferably forever. Her heart starts to slow, but breathing is definitely becoming an issue with his weight pressing her remorselessly into the mattress, and eventually she nudges him gently. “Boyd…”

He moans, a deep incoherent noise of complaint, but when she prods him more firmly he seems to get the message. He rolls onto his side, slipping free of her, and pulls her with him; settling against him suddenly feels like the most natural thing in the world. She can hear his heart beating, can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Tiny, ordinary things. Wonderful things. He smells of sex and musk, of sweat and cologne, and Grace is thoroughly captivated by the unique mix of scents. Her arm is draped possessively across his stomach, and if she knows anything, it’s that she never wants to let him go.

Boyd clears his throat, but even so his voice is still hoarse. “That was…”

“Extraordinary?” Grace suggests, kissing his chest softly.

“Mm. That’s one word for it.”

Grace chuckles, but already some unwanted questions are beginning to prickle at the back of her mind. She tries to ignore them, tries to fight them down. Boyd is sleepy and placid, and she doubts trying to hold any sort of meaningful conversation with him is a good idea. At best he will grumble and bicker; at worst… She doesn’t want to think about the worst. Cautiously, she says, “Um… I know this wasn’t exactly planned, but… well, are you… I mean… do you want to stay…? It’s just… it’s late, and it’s Saturday tomorrow, and – “

“Grace?”

“What?”

“Just tell me which side of the damned bed I’m sleeping on, okay?”

So bloody easy. So impossibly bloody easy.

She says, “You get the door; the window side’s mine.”

-oOo-

Unsurprisingly, Grace wakes several times during the night. It’s been a long time since she shared a bed with anyone, and even longer since she’s been roundly grumbled at for stealing the bedcovers, but in a way she enjoys all of it, every tiny humdrum nuance of the whole experience. She even finds herself being more amused than irritated by the way Boyd slowly but surely spreads out in his sleep, leaving her balanced precariously on the furthest edge of the mattress. He snores softly when he’s on his back – well, he _would_ , she decides, just to annoy her – but even that’s bearable, particularly when he simply blinks owlishly at her when she aims a sharp kick at him in reprisal. Boyd doesn’t do anything quietly, she discovers; not sleeping, not getting up to go to the bathroom, not returning to bed, but she’s happy and so, for the moment at least, she’s vaguely charmed by everything he does.

She wakes early, as she usually does even at the weekend, and any idea of writing the whole night off as a particularly vivid and elaborate dream disappears the moment she sees the tousled silver hair that’s gleaming faintly in the thin morning light. Grace studies the back of his head quietly, intently. Still a few darker streaks here and there, but over the years she’s known him he’s gone very grey indeed. Not that it doesn’t suit him – it assuredly does. The back of his neck is interesting, too, where the hairs are clipped mercilessly short. Grace has an idea that she might kiss him there, softly, gently, until he wakes up.

Boyd spoils her fun. “Stop staring at me. It’s disconcerting.”

“How do you know I’m staring at you?” Grace asks in a mild tone.

“I’m a bloody detective.”

She’s about to challenge him on making unfounded suppositions when she realises that he can see her quite plainly in the dressing table’s big mirror. She pulls a face. “Cheat.”

Boyd turns over to look at her properly. “Come on, then.”

Grace frowns. “What?”

He yawns elaborately and scratches at his neat goatee beard. “I know you. You’re just dying to hold an in-depth post mortem. Let’s just get it out of the way, shall we? Preferably while I’m still too asleep to listen properly.”

“You never listen properly anyway,” she tells him, the words pointed.

“No, I just _appear_ not to listen properly.”

She sighs. “It’s too early for quarrelling, Boyd.”

Boyd grins in response. “At last, something we agree on. New rule – no quarrelling before breakfast.”

Amused despite herself, she says, “Oh, we’re making rules now, are we?”

“Oh, yeah,” he agrees nonchalantly. “Rule number one – Peter doesn’t get woken up before at least nine o’clock on a Saturday unless there’s a national emergency, or the house is actually on fire.”

Deadpan, Grace asks, “What about Sundays?”

“Equally applicable.”

She studies him carefully for a moment. There’s definite amusement in his expression, but something very serious in his eyes, too. “Is this your round-about way of suggesting… this… could become something more… permanent?”

“I guess so.”

“Because…?” Grace prompts.

“Because… we may fight like cat and dog, but that’s not the whole story, is it?”

“What are you saying, Boyd? What are you really saying?”

He groans and rolls over onto his back. “Have a heart, Grace… it’s far too early in the bloody morning for deep and meaningful conversations. A cup of tea, breakfast in bed, and a quick shag – “

“For God’s sake…”

“ – and I guarantee I’ll be in a much better mood, and far more able to cope with whatever long, convoluted conversation you want to have about this.”

Grace considers, and then says, “I’ll compromise on the cup of tea.”

“What about breakfast in bed?”

“In your dreams.”

He gives her the naughty-schoolboy look. “How about substituting the shag for the tea, then?”

Her reply is a haughty, “Black or white?”

Boyd sighs. “White. Drinking tea black before midday is barbaric.”

A little stiffly, Grace gets out of bed; she’s more than a little glad that several hours previously she succumbed to the increasing temptation to quietly don her loose, comfortable – if distinctly non-erotic – jersey pyjamas. Not exactly the most alluring night attire, definitely, but she’s grateful for the warmth… and the coverage. The flattering light of the bedside lamp is one thing, the cold morning light that will brutally expose every single minor imperfection is quite another. Particularly since Boyd is watching her steadily. It makes her feel a little nervous, the absorbed scrutiny, a little insecure. Trying to brush the feeling aside, she demands, “What?”

Grinning lazily, he puts his hands behind his head. “You look like Little Orphan Annie.”

Grace glares at him, but catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she sees his point. The comfy, chain-store pyjamas are definitely a mistake on the would-be sultry temptress front, and the wild hair and ragged remnants of yesterday’s make-up don’t do anything to improve matters, either. She should, of course, be utterly mortified, but something about the woman in the mirror catches her attention. There’s a sparkiness about her that she hasn’t seen for far too long, a hint of… something. Something she can’t quite name, but that’s actually quite pleasing. The woman in the mirror looks dishevelled, yes, but in a distinctly… suggestive… sort of way. A very knowing, louche sort of way. As casually as possible, Grace says, “It’s a look.”

“It’s a bloody sexy look,” Boyd says, surprising her. No doubt about it, his voice has dropped into a lower register. “Fuck the tea. Come back to bed, Grace.”

Sadly, it seems that when he uses that tone, and when he looks at her in that way, she can, as the old saying goes, resist everything but temptation…

-oOo-

“You know this is totally ridiculous, don’t you?” Grace says, watching as Boyd entertains himself drawing invisible spirals round her breasts; first one, then the other, and then back again. She’s beginning to suspect it’s a diversion he’s never going to tire of. She continues, “At our age, I mean.”

He snorts disparagingly. “’At _our_ age’? Some of us are still in our fifties, Grace.”

“ _Just_.”

Boyd ignores her. “Who the fuck cares? And when did you start subscribing to some conventional idea of what you should and shouldn’t be doing?”

“I didn’t… don’t. I’m just saying – “

“Look,” he says, finally abandoning his fascinating spirals and sitting up. “If you really want to discuss this into next week and back, go right ahead, but I’m telling you, it’s a waste of breath. Not everything has to be complicated, you know.”

“I’m aware of that, thank you. Don’t you think we should talk about where we go from here?”

He shrugs. “Not particularly.”

Irritated, she asks, “How can you be so blasé about it?”

“Grace,” he says, running his fingers slowly through his hair. “We’ve known each other for the better part of a decade, we spend half our bloody lives together anyway, and we argue like an old married couple as it is. So why don’t we just enjoy some of the benefits as well, hmm?”

Grace digests his words in silence. He looks at her and she looks back, studying him closely. He’s a very handsome man, intelligent, articulate, and capable of great charm, and there’s no doubt that he can be gentle and affectionate when he wants to be. Slowly, clearly, she says, “’Friends with benefits’, as they say nowadays? Is that what all this has been about?”

Boyd grimaces, growls an impatient, “Oh, for God’s sake...”

“No,” she says, sitting up and reaching for her discarded pyjamas. “No, let’s just do each other the courtesy of being completely honest for a change, shall we? I mean, it’s not as if – “

“Grace…”

“Oh, don’t bother,” she snaps. “We’re both old enough to know that sometimes sex is just sex.”

“Why won’t you ever listen to me? You nag me half to bloody death about talking to you, and then you won’t listen to a word I try to say. Fuck’s sake, Grace, is it any wonder we always end up fighting?”

Raising her eyebrows, Grace demands, “Hang on, when did this all become _my_ fault?”

“When you started trying to put words into my mouth. You know what? I don’t know why I bother sometimes. You perpetually think the worst of me whatever I say, whatever I do.”

Standing up, she says, “It’s called experience. _Years_ of bloody experience.”

Boyd follows her up. “Will you listen to yourself? Who the hell appointed you to sit in judgement over me?”

With a very deliberate sigh, Grace says, “That’s right, Boyd. Go ahead, do what you do best, lose your temper and start shouting.”

He glares at her, and although his expression is deeply forbidding, she simply stares back challengingly. It does briefly cross her mind how ridiculous they must look – glowering angrily at each other, her in her scruffy pyjamas, him wearing absolutely nothing. There’s definitely something absurd about arguing with an entirely naked man. Especially one who’s bristling as fiercely as Boyd currently is. She can see the way his broad chest expands even further as he takes in a deep breath, but whether it’s an attempt to calm himself, or just in preparation for the roar she thinks is coming, Grace isn’t quite sure. She deliberately pushes past him, heading for the bedroom door. Over her shoulder, she adds, “You might want to get dressed before you storm off, by the way.”

She’s on the landing before she hears the sound of shattering glass. Grace winces, but keeps going. She assumes he’s snatched up the empty wine bottle from the bedside table and hurled it at the wall, but she has no intention of going back to find out.

-oOo-

There’s no doubt about it, she thinks, staring out of the kitchen window as she waits for the kettle to boil, they simply bring out the absolute worst in each other. Every single time. It’s always been the same – relatively short periods of harmony shattered by long stretches of discord. Even when they’re not actually at each other’s throats, they still find endless excuses to needle each other. Not strictly true, she admits to herself after a moment. The last six months or so have been abnormally harmonious, largely free of any serious bickering, as if they have both understood the need for a tacit ceasefire during her illness and subsequent recovery. In fact, she grudgingly concedes, it’s hard to imagine how Boyd could have been any more solicitous or accommodating from the first moment he found out she was unwell.

Mentally, Grace kicks herself. It’s too easy to make excuses for him, to indulge him. He’s a grown man, not a child. There’s no reason why she – or anyone else, in fact – should tolerate what can, frankly, be appalling behaviour. He gets away with far too much, and being the head of a largely autonomous unit only enables him to behave in just about any way he pleases. He shouts, he sulks, and he too-often gets his own way. Not this time. No. Definitely not this time. It doesn’t matter how good-looking he is, or how charming he can be, she’s not going to dance to this particular tune. On principle, she’s not.

She can hear his footsteps on the stairs. Solid, inexorable. She waits for the sound of the front door, waits for it to slam. Doesn’t happen. Instead, the kitchen door opens. Ignoring him would cost her the moral high ground, so Grace looks round, as impassive as she can manage. He’s not fully-dressed – his feet are still bare, and the buttons still remaining on his shirt are unfastened – but at least she doesn’t feel quite as much as if she’s part of some surreal art-house film. Wondering why she feels the need to keep provoking him, she asks, “Still here?”

“Manifestly.”

“Why?”

Boyd snorts. “Why do you bloody think?”

“Honestly?” Grace asks. “I really have no idea. You’re a law unto yourself, Boyd. I gave up trying to understand why you do anything years ago.”

Strangely, the words don’t seem to reignite his temper. He leans against the doorframe and puts his hands in his trouser pockets. “Sometimes I find myself wondering if there’s _anything_ about me that doesn’t infuriate you.”

“Funny,” she says, turning her back on him to concentrate on the long-overdue cup of tea that she’s absolutely determined to finish making, “I often find myself thinking exactly the same thing.”

“Ever reach any conclusions?”

Grace sighs. “Not really.”

“Nor me.” There’s a short pause, followed by a quiet, “I’m not a bad guy at heart, Grace.”

She closes her eyes for a moment but keeps her back firmly to him. “I know that.”

“But you still always choose to think the worst of me, don’t you?”

The surprisingly gentle accusation makes her uncomfortable – there’s more truth to it than she likes to admit, even to herself. She shrugs. “You bring it on yourself, Boyd. Your temper – “

He cuts across her. “I get angry because I get frustrated. And what happened upstairs wasn’t about my temper – it was about you jumping to conclusions.”

Reluctantly abandoning the tea-making again, Grace turns to face him. She folds her arms, unconsciously defensive, and asks, “Why can’t we ever discuss anything properly without you flying off the handle?”

“Because if you’re not treating me like a wayward child, you’re putting words into my mouth,” Boyd tells her impatiently. “Oh, wise up, Grace. We’ve been going round and round in bloody circles for years. Aren’t you just a bit tired of it by now? Don’t you ever ask yourself what it would be like if we stopped playing games with each other for five bloody minutes and just admitted…”

“Admitted what?” Grace asks as he lets the words trail.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake – you _know_ what I’m talking about.”

“Do I?”

“Grace.”

She shakes her head. “What are you trying to say, Boyd?”

“God, I don’t think I even know anymore,” he says, straightening up. “You’re right – sometimes sex is just sex. Sometimes it’s not even good sex. But don’t try to tell me anything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours has only been about sex, because we both know that’s not true. That wasn’t just sex… Christ, Grace, I can still taste you… still smell you on me. Do you have _any_ idea of what you do to me?”

The words are delivered in a low growl, and Grave shivers despite herself. She can see the truth of his words clearly in his eyes – they burn. Swallowing, she says, “I’m not going to bother trying to deny how good it was – there’s no point – but I’m not going to sleep with you just because it seems… to work… between us. I don’t need that sort of complication in my life.”

His brows draw down sharply. “’Complication’? That’s what I am to you? A _complication_?”

Quickly, she says, “I’m not saying _you’re_ a complication, Boyd, I’m saying casual _sex_ is a complication. One I don’t want or need at my time of life.”

Boyd groans, loud and emphatic. “Not the age crap again, for fuck’s sake. Stop obsessing about a totally irrelevant number. So we’re both getting a bit long in the tooth? So what? And will you please get it through your bloody head that I’m not talking about casual sex? I’m talking about you and me, and whether we could possibly have a future together.”

There’s something in his expression that tells Grace he’s absolutely serious. A solemnity, a quiet conviction that speaks of tenacity and sincerity. She’s known him for far too long to imagine the words are delivered lightly, but she struggles to find an appropriate response. Eventually, she settles on, “Why now?”

“Isn’t that bloody obvious?” Boyd asks, sounding faintly incredulous. “There’s nothing like being shit-scared of losing someone to help focus the mind. You think the last six months have been easy for me? Watching you go through… all that… not knowing from one day to the next what was going to happen… Jesus, Grace, why do you think I spent every spare minute I had trying to do everything I could to support you?”

“I thought… you were just being a good friend.”

“I _was_ being a good friend. Doesn’t mean I didn’t learn something fundamental from the whole thing.”

“Which was…?”

He glowers. “Are you being deliberately obtuse?”

“No,” Grace says. She sighs and looks down for a moment, trying to compose her thoughts into words that can’t be misinterpreted, even by him. “I know it wasn’t easy for you, Peter. Don’t think for one moment that I didn’t see how much it affected you – or that I didn’t… don’t… appreciate the fact that you were there for me when I really needed someone…”

“But…?” Boyd prompts.

“But… Oh, I don’t know,” she says. Irritably, she adds, “Strange as it seems, I don’t have all the answers. I’m a psychologist, not a damned psychic.”

He lashes back instantly with, “Yeah, well I’m just an ordinary guy who found out the hard way just how unbelievably painful it is to watch someone you love go through that kind of ordeal when they don’t have a clue how you feel about them.”

The silence that follows his words is as long as it is charged. Grace looks at him, really looks at him. He looks old, weary, and thoroughly miserable, almost as hollow and defeated as he did in the long, painful weeks after his son’s death. The earlier air of challenge has gone, leaving him quiet and unhappy, appallingly vulnerable, and she doesn’t think she can bear it. So deep, some of the lines etched into his face, so deep and so telling. He slips so effortlessly between masks and personas – tough, experienced police officer, charming, flirtatious man-about-town, mischievous rogue, loyal friend – that even she sometimes has trouble trying to decide who and what he really is beneath the ever-changing façade.

She says the only thing she possibly can. “You idiot… You’re hopeless, Boyd. Absolutely hopeless.”

“Thanks, Grace,” he says, his tone dry and bemused.

“I don’t suppose it ever crossed your tiny mind to just _tell_ me…?” Grace inquires. She shakes her head slowly. “No, of course it didn’t. Completely hopeless. Are you listening to me? I love you, God knows why, but I do, and if you love me – “

“Of course I bloody love you. Isn’t that blindingly obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“Oh God…” Boyd says, and abruptly starts to pace towards her. “You know I’m not a sentimental hearts and flowers sort of guy. I’m a jaded old cynic who’s seen far too much of the dark side of human nature, and, yeah, I’m a bloody idiot sometimes, but – “

“Just _say_ it, Boyd. It won’t kill you.”

He stops just in front of her, looks down at her, and for a moment he says nothing. Grace can see the deep brown eyes studying her with an implacable intensity, can see him turning things over and over in his mind, and she guesses – rightly – that finding himself put so firmly on the spot is infuriating him. His mouth has settled into a sullen, mutinous pout, and she almost laughs. He’s bristling again, and just as she thinks he’s going to turn on his heel and stalk away, he grinds out, “I. Love. You.”

The words are delivered so ungraciously, so resentfully, that it really does take every ounce of self-control she possesses not to laugh. As solemnly as she can manage, Grace says, “Thank you.”

“You are so… _exasperating_.”

She smiles up at him. Simply can’t help it. And it doesn’t surprise her in the least when Boyd bows his head and kisses her. Gently, but with an easy, unaffected intimacy that speaks volumes. She slips her arms round his waist, holds him tightly, possessively. It’s a moment of simplicity, where everything seems to make perfect sense. When they draw back from each other, she says, “So what happens now?”

He chuckles. “So many questions. Do you _ever_ stop thinking?”

“Not often,” Grace admits. A little tentatively, she puts her head on his shoulder. “I just need to – “

“Stop talking.”

She does. The silence that fills the room is strangely gentle, oddly reassuring. Boyd holds her quietly, securely, and she has a brief flash of insight into the way their life could be – if they allow it. She has a sense of just how ordinary this extraordinary man can be, and she likes it. She likes it a lot.

He says, “I know you’re going to hate me for this, but the time’s getting on, and I have an unbelievable amount of work to do. I stink to high heaven, and I need a shave, so I’m going home now. Then I’m going into the office… Wait. Before you hand my balls to me on a plate… Come over to my place later. I’ll cook you dinner – ”

Grace pulls a face. “Oh God…”

“ – and tomorrow we’ll spend the whole day together. We’ll go to the coast or something. Deal?”

She makes a show of thinking about it before nodding. “Deal.”

Boyd kisses the top of her head. “Bring an overnight bag.”

“Great seduction technique, Boyd,” she says, shaking her head.

He grins down at her. “Thought you’d appreciate it.”

-oOo-

There’s something a bit… cold-blooded… about it, Grace decides as she works her way through the heavy traffic that always gathers around the Blackwall Tunnel. Something… painfully intentional. The overnight bag on the backseat of the car is a mute, accusing presence. She has a suspicion that she might be just a bit too old to be driving across London to a pre-arranged rendezvous with a lover. What a word that is. One that comes loaded with all sorts of meaning. _Lover_. Definitely not a word that seems appropriate at her age. Boyd’s right, she abruptly decides, glaring at a young man in a shabby hatchback, daring him to cut her up. He’s right – she’s far too obsessed with numbers that actually don’t mean very much at all. And Boyd is no spring chicken, either. He’s a greying, battle-scarred old warhorse who’s going to find himself put out to pasture in the not too-distant future, whether he likes it or not. She’ll happily put money on him wrestling perhaps five or six more years out of the Met, one way or another, but then they’ll pension him off and forget about him.

Ironically, she’ll probably have a longer career than he will – if she wants it. Grace doesn’t know what she wants, not really. Health, companionship. Love. He’s a good man. Flawed, no question, but a good man. The future, that blurry, nebulous place, could be good with him. She knows that. Unpredictable, maybe, but that’s the nature of the beast. She’s never been particularly interested in the dull and the mundane. Most of the men who’ve come and gone throughout her life have been fascinating, idiosyncratic or simply a little bit different. Peter Boyd is, of course, exactly her type – challenging, interesting, and strong-willed. He’ll indulge her because it amuses him, but he won’t let her walk all over him, and that appeals to her. Has _always_ appealed to her.

The artificial light of the tunnel gives way to the fading early-evening spring sunshine, and Grace smiles to herself. She’s doing the right thing, she’s sure of it. They’ve been friends and colleagues for so many years that they understand each other. Mostly. They fight because that’s the way they are, but that doesn’t matter, not really. They both have their faults. Mentally shaking herself, she tries to let go of introspection. Too much thinking, that’s undoubtedly what Boyd would say. He might be right. Irritatingly, he often is, even though she tries her hardest not to admit it. Don’t think, just _be_.

The big, dark Audi is on the drive, nose towards the garage. At least he’s not still at the office, she thinks. Promising start. Parked, she suffers a momentary dilemma.  A foolish sort of dilemma. Take her bag into the house with her, or leave it in the car until later… The dilemma of the young and inexperienced, Grace decides, and grabs the handles with unnecessary roughness. She’s too old to play coy games. Locking the car, she’s surprised that Boyd comes out to meet her. Casually dressed, but ruthlessly well-groomed. Even more surprised that he kisses her gently on the cheek and takes her bag from her, guiding her up the drive with a light hand on her back. Confidence. Not arrogance, she realises, just complete confidence.

-oOo-

With dinner a surprisingly good memory, and the curtains closed against the chilly spring evening, Grace is comfortably settled against Boyd on the long sofa, most of her attention on the soft music in the background and the very good Merlot he’s conjured up from somewhere. Mellow, full-blooded, expensive. A wine to be appreciated. They talk idly, and they share long, relaxed silences, and she reflects on just how easy it would be to forget everything else. Interrupting her reverie, Boyd’s voice is languid. “Doctor Foley, I have a problem.”

“Just the one?” Grace questions, raising her eyebrows.

He ignores the gibe. “An urgent problem. One you could really do quite a lot to rectify.”

There’s a hint of something in the smooth, dark voice that makes her look up at him quizzically. A touch of mischief, and something else, something altogether more lascivious. Both are present in his eyes, too, along with amusement and affection. He grins and deliberately flicks his eyes downwards. She follows his gaze automatically, her scrutiny traversing the casual shirt, the heavy belt buckle, and finally coming to rest on the substantial evidence of his alleged affliction.

Blatantly, Grace places her hand on the problem in question. His jeans do nothing to disguise the extent of it. On the contrary, they help emphasise it, and she can perfectly identify the organic lines beneath the well-worn denim, perfectly feel the sharp distinction between what is shamelessly, impudently hard and what is altogether softer and more malleable. A touch surprised by how throaty her voice suddenly sounds, she says, “You’re completely incorrigible.”

It’s very good for her ego, though, the effect she so evidently has on him, this handsome, puissant younger man who has no difficulty at all in attracting members of the opposite sex. As good for her ego, in fact, as the growing belief in his laconic but unswerving devotion. Some things move in mysterious ways, and Boyd is one of them. Grace isn’t predisposed to ask too many questions, not for as long as she can see such raw hunger in his eyes when he looks at her. He is, after all, the man she has quietly wanted for a long, long time. No, whatever she’s inclined to think about the possibly mismatched combination of her age, and her current personal circumstances, Grace isn’t asking any questions. Not tonight.

There is something to be said for age, however. A certain… expertise… and a distinct lack of awkward, fumbling embarrassment, for a start. With considerable aplomb, she releases his belt buckle, well-aware of the smouldering gaze focused steadily on her. Button-fly jeans, she discovers. One of the truly great inventions of civilised society. With enough dexterity, once the top button is loose… A neat twist of the wrist at the right angle is all it takes to pop every last button in one practised move, and the way she does it certainly has a profound effect on Boyd. Or on certain, rather interesting, parts of Boyd, at least. Grace smiles to herself at the distinct twitch beneath the smooth material of his shorts that her bold approach engenders.

“I think I’ve located your problem,” Grace tells him, “but further investigation may be required.”

“I’m a great advocate of further investigation.”

“Oh, I know that… _Detective Superintendent_.”

There’s something that’s simultaneously expectant and cagey in Boyd’s expression now, something both covetous and carnal that’s cut with just a dash of caution, as if he half-expects her to change her mind, to draw away with a chuckle and a flippant word. If that’s what he thinks, he’s wrong. Her own interest is most definitely piqued, and Grace has no qualms at all about making the most of the opportunity presented. Once, perhaps, but not anymore.

Still, there’s still some fun to be had from continuing the banter. “Go on, then. Impress me.”

Boyd raises his eyebrows a perfectly calculated degree, and says absolutely nothing. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he simply hooks his thumbs under the elasticated waistband of his shorts and pointedly lowers the fabric past the genuinely impressive hardness beneath. There’s nothing remotely shy and retiring about Peter Boyd. He’s a man with a remarkably healthy ego and a more than substantial amount of self-assurance, and despite occasional irritation, Grace most definitely likes him that way. Brash and boisterous. Once again his voice is as smooth as velvet as he asks, “Impressive enough for you?”

She doesn’t particularly mind pandering to that healthy ego occasionally, either. “Unquestionably.”

He grins, more in acknowledgement of the game than in self-satisfaction; a grin that becomes progressively more wolfish as her fingers close round the far-too tempting target. It’s still surprising her what a tactile sort of creature he is in private. It seems he likes to touch, and he likes to _be_ touched – both of which suit her just fine. As she tightens her grip she can feel the answering throb in response, and that makes her smile wickedly and give silent thanks to whatever benevolent deity is responsible for the continued potency of late-middle-aged male police officers.

Unashamedly, Boyd pushes into her hand, soliciting more proactive attention, and her smile only broadens. “Subtle as ever.”

“It’s in your hands to make an old man very happy, Grace,” he says with an answering smirk.

For a moment they gaze at each other, and despite the banter and the rising heat, inexplicably it’s a very tender, intimate moment. One that conveys so very much about the nature and strength of the bond between them, one that easily transcends the increasing spike of lust and desire. Ultimately, however, Grace still has a good handful of warm, solid male flesh, and consequently it’s a little difficult to maintain such a level of pure, noble thought. So she doesn’t bother. Stroking him, she deliberately rubs her thumb across the soft, sensitive crown, and she isn’t at all surprised by the deep answering groan that breaks from him.

Releasing him, Grace changes position, and as she does so, Boyd sits up a little, quickly strips his shirt and throws it aside, exposing the broad expanse of his chest. It’s an unspoken invitation that Grace isn’t going to refuse. Pushing him back a little, she starts to kiss that bare chest – warm, muscular and incredibly smooth – and her hand starts to explore the interesting curve from ribcage to stomach, and then moves on towards his hip, finally slipping beneath the open jeans. There’s something very addictive about the feel of him. Sleek, warm; soft in places, hard in others. Muscle, bone, and sinew beneath the softer flesh. And touching him certainly has a powerful effect on her own arousal, intensifying the ache low in her abdomen, and making her intensely aware of every inch of her own skin. Maybe Boyd senses it, because his hands are moving again, one idly tracing patterns across her upper back, the other cupping the nearest breast, every stroke of his thumb against her nipple sending tiny shockwaves much lower in her body.

He pulls her up towards him, his strength so careless and so obvious, and their lips meet spontaneously in a kiss that starts with some ferocity but becomes slower, deeper, infinitely more sensuous and exploratory. Impatient he may be, but thankfully she’s discovering he knows when to take his time, and Grace isn’t interested in hurrying him. No, she makes the most of it, lips, teeth and tongue, and the intensely male prickle of beard and stubble against her far more sensitive skin.

They draw apart slowly, regarding each other with odd solemnity. It’s Boyd who suggests softly, “Upstairs…?”

Keen as she is to make the acquaintance of his bedroom, Grace shakes her head slightly. “Why bother?”

“Bad girl,” he says, but something very intense ignites in his eyes. Oh yes, the years may be mounting up, but she’s always had a deliberately-concealed adventurous streak, and she can see that Boyd likes it. _Really_ likes it. Slyly, he puts his hands behind his head. “So just what are you intending to do to me, Doctor Foley?”

Easing down slowly, Grace kisses the hollow of his throat, the plateau of his chest, the curve of his stomach. Breaking at his navel she looks up at him, amused by his fascinated, engrossed expression. “That rather depends.”

“On?” Boyd asks, the question utterly pointless. Give the right encouragement she thinks he will probably accede to just about any demand she cares to make – and they both know it.

“Whether or not you’re going to give in and let me come back to the unit fulltime now.”

“Fulltime,” he says, managing to inject an astonishing amount of disgust into the word.

Grace brushes her lips against his skin, kisses him just below the navel. It provokes a tensing of muscles and a sharp intake of breath, but no immediate agreement. She says, “I really don’t need any more time off to convalesce. And don’t tell me you’re all coping fine with me on reduced hours, because I know you’re not – especially with Kat leaving next month.”

“Oh, come on, Grace,” Boyd says, sounding unusually plaintive. “I’ll get my arse kicked from here to Kingdom Come by those petty bureaucrats at the Home Office if I go against your consultant’s advice…”

She moves a little lower, acutely aware of the way the heat and the musk is intensifying the closer she gets to her target, and the way the sparse trail of dark hairs becomes denser, more wiry as she continues relentlessly downwards. Perfectly judging the moment, she stops pointedly and leans up on her elbow. Again, their eyes lock and the shared gaze becomes a minor battle of wills. Grace knows she’s going to win. She usually does, and probably he’s only still resisting for form’s sake anyway. His mouth settles into a sulky line. A beautifully sullen little boy in a grown man’s body. She waits.

“Oh, fine,” Boyd growls in the end, his patience snapping. “I’ll see you in my office on Monday bloody morning. Now for God’s sake find something more interesting to do with that damned mouth of yours, will you?”

Not bothering to hide her triumphant grin, Grace does exactly that. It’s no great hardship; she’s already discovered that she enjoys it as much as he does. More, perhaps, simply for the sheer amount of power it gives her over him. His fingers immediately tangle in her hair and he groans, a deep, throaty noise that seems to vibrate through her as she expertly proves exactly who has the upper hand. Boyd shivers, he shakes, he curses almost inaudibly, his body flexed, a soft sheen of sweat starting to glisten on his skin, and all of it makes Grace feel simultaneously powerful and empowered. Such a big man; so very strong, both mentally and physically. A man with such a dominant, commanding reputation. Meaningless. Completely meaningless.

Grace is certain could break him if she wanted to, could reduce him to a boneless shadow of breathless incoherence, but that doesn’t suit her plans. Not at all. She sucks him, tongues him, bites him softly and deliberately; she cups his heavy balls and applies just enough pressure to let him know who’s in control, and when she hears the tempo of his already fast breathing change, become even quicker, she abandons him with a final, lingering sweep of her tongue. She doesn’t expect him to come back at her quite so fast, but there’s no doubt his blood is up, and she knows better than to attempt to resist him – not that she wants to. Her shoulders hit the back of the sofa with an audible thud, but she doesn’t care, and then Boyd’s on her, kissing her roughly, fiercely; it’s an attack, but not one Grace fears. Big as he is, strong as he is, she’s never had reason to be afraid of him. She guesses he can – and _will_ – play rough if it suits him, but she trusts him to keep his strength tightly curbed.

He moves to her neck, biting gently, and then deliberately running his chin along the curve of her shoulder, the coarseness of his beard making her moan softly and dig her fingertips into his biceps. He looms against her, a portrait of wide, muscular shoulders and deep, broad chest, and Grace suddenly feels tiny; impossibly delicate compared to Boyd in all his simple, bullish masculinity. His eyes are blazing with an inner fire that burns very, very hot, but his voice is surprisingly soft as he says, “Last chance to write last night off as just one of those things…”

Grace understands. He’s giving her a final opportunity to change her mind, to retreat back behind the boundaries they set years ago. She holds his gaze unflinchingly and shakes her head very slightly. It’s enough. He kisses her again, and she responds unreservedly, letting the rising tide of desire take her wherever it will. She’s distantly amused by just how much skill he brings to the task of slowly but surely undressing her. Skill and concentration. Every piece of skin he exposes he kisses, and she can’t stop herself moaning impatiently as he moves lower and lower. Eyes closed, she feels a shift in weight, and when she looks he’s kneeling on the floor grinning at her. There’s absolutely no doubting his intentions and she shivers in anticipation. Sure enough, he dips his shoulders, slips them beneath her thighs, his hands on her hips.

“Naughty boy,” she tells him, very deliberately licking her lips.

“You have no idea,” he says, his voice suddenly a deep, irresistible purr.

She thinks she does. Moments later, she knows damn well she does. She already knows how uninhibited he is, how willing he is to give her whatever she wants, but this time he seems absolutely determined to push her into that dark, drowning place where there’s nothing but raw sensation – and he doesn’t seem particularly interested in doing it quickly. She wants to beg him to stop; she wants to beg him _not_ to stop. His arms are looped over her thighs, preventing any hope she might have of escaping the devilish, agile tongue that licks and flicks and probes. Long, slow strokes, quick, swirling caresses. The feel of his mouth, the far from unpleasant roughness of his beard. The smell of them both in the air, the taste of him still in her mouth… it’s a wild, hedonistic mix that doesn’t help Grace maintain any kind of equilibrium.

He buries his tongue inside her, and she closes her eyes tightly, panting and moaning, words and sounds forming an incoherent litany that she’s barely aware of. Everything in her world has contracted down to the slick, aching place between her thighs where Boyd is most definitely the one in control. The building pressure is as distinctive as it is wonderful, and some detached part of her mind thinks that if he chooses that moment to stop she might just murder him. He doesn’t stop. He goes back to the strong, steady strokes of his tongue that work so very well, and as the muscles in her legs start to spasm and her internal muscles start to contract, Grace loses any remaining pretence of calm. She knows she’s crying out, knows she’s arching her back and grabbing wildly at his hair, but none of it is as real as the violent waves of intense pleasure that are rolling relentlessly through her.

Boyd shifts position abruptly, and she’s about to call every curse she’s ever heard down on his head when he kneels up and seizes her hips again. There’s no delicacy this time, no finesse, he simply drives himself home in a single hard lunge. Grace is still coming as he starts to thrust, and she’s dimly aware of her body shuddering around him, of the heat and hardness of him as he drives forcefully into her. Reality starts to reassert itself – for Grace, at least – and she’s almost awed by the sheer fury of him as his hips move faster and faster. His eyes are shut, his head is back, and she can tell from the movement of the muscles in his jaw that he’s grinding his teeth. She doubts anything – or anyone – could get through to him at that moment. Grace doesn’t care. Her heart is still racing, she’s still breathing heavily, and the last few tingles of pleasure are still rippling softly through her.

His rhythm changes, becomes jerky and sharp, and as his fingers tighten even further on her hips, Boyd shouts, his back curving as his hips surge. She feels it, feels him coming in a rush of liquid heat. Strangely triumphant, she waits the few seconds until he opens his eyes and blinks at her, and then she holds her arms out. It seems he doesn’t need further encouragement, because he sinks against her instantly, warm and heavy and vibrantly, wonderfully real. Giving in to a wave of tenderness, she strokes his hair gently, murmurs soft words into his ear. Basks, in fact, in the intimacy of the moment.

It’s a long time before Boyd moves again, and when he does, he seems clumsy and stunned. Grace thinks any danger of him actually suffering a cardiac arrest has probably passed, but she still eyes him cautiously as he disengages and slumps next to her, jeans and shorts still tangled ludicrously round his ankles. His verdict is pithy. “Fuck.”

Grace laughs. “I think that’s how we got into this in the first place. Last night…?”

Boyd looks momentarily bewildered, but then apparently remembers that inadvertent moment outside her front door and his response to it. “Yeah… Still. Fuck.”

Resting her head against his bare chest, she says, “I’ll take that as some kind of expression of satisfaction, shall I?”

“Mm.”

She elbows him gently. “Don’t you _dare_ go to sleep.”

“Have a heart,” he mutters. “I’m an old man. Three times in less than twenty-four hours? That’s a pretty good batting average, Grace.”

“Not bad,” she says, very deliberately condescending.

His eyes snap open. “’Not bad’, she says. Give me half an hour…”

“Ha,” Grace challenges.

Silence. Then, reluctantly, “All right. Maybe a couple of hours.”

“You’re dreaming again, Boyd.”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, but with no real trace of ire. “Drink the rest of your wine, and let me snooze in bloody peace.”

“So romantic.”

“Get used to it.”

She chuckles again, and curls more comfortably against him. “Boyd?”

Impatiently, “What?”

“Are you going to give me a tour of your bedroom?”

“Later. Right now my legs don’t work.”

Smirking, Grace locates her wineglass and lets him doze. The room is warm and softly-lit, the music is still playing and the wine is very good. On balance, she decides, she is a thoroughly satisfied woman. In more ways than one.

-oOo-

Sunday morning. Distant church bells. A very wide, very comfortable bed. Kingsize at least, she thinks. Boyd is asleep, and since nine o’clock is still a few minutes away, Grace heeds the rule and doesn’t disturb him. At least there’s more room in his bed than in hers. Good thing, given that he’s virtually spread-eagled, face down with his head buried in the feather pillows. She has no idea how he’s managing to breathe, but from the slow, steady movement of his ribcage he’s not struggling. When she tires of watching him, she lets her eyes wander the room again. Big master bedroom, complete with immaculate en suite. Masculine, of course, but not aggressively so. Simple. Neat. Big built-in wardrobes as befits a man renowned for his sartorial elegance. Minimal other furniture. Unremarkable, really. Expensive, but unremarkable.

No clutter, Grace reflects. Personal possessions – a few books, a couple of photographs, a few odd bits and pieces – but not much in the way of anything abstract. A rather good watercolour of a seascape on one wall, but nothing else. A very… Boyd… sort of room. Not as gloomy or spartan as his office, of course, but nothing about it surprises her. She wonders if this was his marital bedroom a long, long time ago, but deliberately doesn’t pursue the thought. She doesn’t want to start contemplating how many women have shared the big bed with him. No trace of any of them, of course. She wonders how he’ll feel when her things start to arrive, bit by bit, as she’s sure they will. Almost certainly he will grumble and complain, and let her do exactly as she pleases.

Somehow, Grace doesn’t doubt that this latest phase of their long relationship will be a permanent one. They will squabble and fight as they always have, and there will be tantrums and tears, but she knows herself and she knows him. Knows him, and loves him.

“Stop it,” his voice says, heavily muffled by the pillows. “You’re staring at me again.”

She stares suspiciously at the back of his head. “How can you possibly know that?”

“I just do,” Boyd mumbles.

He probably does. After all, knowledge is a sword that cuts both ways, and he knows her just as well as she knows him. Grace smiles to herself. And starts to draw light, complicated patterns on his bare back with the very tips of her fingers.

_\- the end -_

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been Missing In Action for a long while, partly because it attracted at least one scathing review on FFN, and being an overly-sensitive soul, when I removed it during the height of that site's Great Adult Fic Purge I swore it would never see the light of day again. You can either blame or thank GotTea and missduncan for its re-emergence. :)


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